Emily Carr As I Knew Her

by Carol Pearson

  Many of her sayings have stayed with me through the years, with the memory of the gleam in her eyes as she said them. It is a blessing I shall ever be grateful for. Her standards—what a goal to strive for!

  No sham. No fraud. Or no signature.

  MOULDING CLAY, AND HEARTS

  YOU must know someone with lovely hands. You will understand then the pleasure that can be derived from watching such hands perform even a simple task. Emily Carr had lovely hands. Even as a youngster it was hard for me to concentrate on the work before me. I would sit and watch those strong, beautiful fingers, as they moulded and shaped the clay into all manner of bowls, vases, menu-holders, ash-trays, door-knobs, buttons, brooches and lamp bases. There seemed to be no limit to the number she thought up. They took shape and grew in her clever fingers. In the cellar, where she did all her own firing, she had had a real kiln built. She had become quite expert at glazing in many different ways.

  By 1924 Miss Carr had become very well known for her lovely pottery with the bright Indian designs. I was then about fourteen and had studied with her for seven years, when she asked me to live with her. I was still to continue with my schooling and Art lessons, but I could help her with the pottery orders which were coming in fast. I was thrilled, of course. I was with her most of the time, anyway. I knew her very well and loved her dearly.

  One day, about six months after this, she called on my Mother and asked if she could adopt me. I had a sister and a brother, and she said she thought “things could be divided up a little better.” My Mother was a wonderful person. She thanked Miss Carr and said that she knew how happy I was there, and that I could certainly continue to live where I was receiving such wonderful care, but I was to remain Carol Williams. Never at any time was I consulted about it by either of them. I never thought about it at the time; now it seems right that I wasn’t.

  Until that day Miss Carr had always been Miss Carr to me. That evening she said quietly, as we sat with the animals, “Child, I have two big wants. One is for a daughter of my own. The other is for a baboon. You will always be my own daughter, in my heart at least, but I am sorry you will not be my legal one. As you know, I am Mom to my dogs and my monkey, so may I be Mom to you, too?” She was saying it in a way she hoped would be half funny, adding the bit about the baboon! “So,” she went on, “I will call you Baboo; you can be to all, for ever my Baboo, and I will be Mom to you.” She was, ever after.

  So that my own Mother’s feelings would not be hurt in any way, she went back and explained to her that the name “Mother” was not infringed on in any way. She said she hoped some day I would have a mother-in-law, but she was to be from that time on, my mother-in-love. The very term mother-in-love seems to me to tell you more about this sweet little old lady than I ever could. A heart has to be very soft, a mind very agile and sweet, for terms that sound like that. Then she ran her hand over my head, and went on her way, but my hair tingled; there were kisses in her fingertips.

  Nearly every morning during those first years, we walked in Beacon Hill Park. The flowers there were lovely, but they seemed so much more so when I was there with her. She had a deep love for them, her words of admiration coming almost unconsciously as she inspected each bed of blooms to see how many more colours and buds there were than on the evening before.

  The birds were a great joy to her also. Many were known to her by name, and would fly down to her when called, though they were the wild birds of the park. They had been tamed and named by her at various times, as she had worked her magic on them! Ego, Perky, Saucy, Yappy, Pretty, Chit, would all fly down from the trees as she called them. She would soon be surrounded; her pockets were always full of the choice things she knew they loved best, and had saved for them. They had grown to know and trust her. That it was not all tummy love was quite evident. I would be sitting off to one side, with my few crumbs, but only one or two of the braver ones ever came near me. Her love and understanding of the birds had developed in England years before, when she had been ill for months and had become very fond of the birds of which she had made pets. It was beautiful to hear her talking to them; it made you hope that when you were a mother some day, your own baby would hear the same tones in your voice. They were there in my Mother’s the day I was married, when she called me to get up. All she said was, “Come on, little lady, time to get up.” Nothing as far as words went, but the same tones were there.

  The raw lumps of clay were moulded into beautiful things, with the strength, the skill, and the love in those lovely hands. In the same manner wild animals, domestic pets, and some lucky people, who came in close contact with her, were loved and moulded, by the very depth of her understanding, genuine sympathy, and the Artist in her soul, that just naturally strove to put all it came in contact with in harmony.

  The pottery pieces and beautiful pictures, the books that have the power to hold you, are here for the world to see, to admire, and be grateful for. But if there were only some way to measure the good and comfort that she poured on lonely, sick, or wanting people and animals!

  GATHERING THE CLAY

  MANY people along Oak Bay, James Bay, and in Beacon Hill Park had labelled this wonderful person queer mostly because they did not know, or understand, her.

  She had many ideas, most of them labour-saving, that the public did not understand, but as they were great time-savers, they worked for her very well. As far back as 1925 she had the idea that a baby carriage would be just the thing for bringing home groceries. So we got a large deep one, painted it brown, and went shopping. Such a howl you never did hear! A crowd followed along from store to store, jeering. They made all sorts of remarks, mostly unkind, some rude, about “old women who could find no better uses for baby carriages,” and the suggestions they made were quite vile. She ignored them completely and went her way. Woo, the monkey, tied to the handle, sometimes ran alongside, sometimes jumped on the cover to ride. Always we had the three little dogs following. After all, with so much painting going on, they had to get out for their exercise whenever we went. I would be tagging along, generally pushing the carriage, always with her. Once she turned to me and said, “Child, there is no need for you to be laughed at. You go along by yourself across the street; I’ll pretend not to know you and we will make a game of it.” This was to give me an easy “out.” As if I would take it! I could have shouted at them, I was so angry, till, seeing my concern, she said, “Think, Child. It is they who should be pitied; they may have no real interest in life, no pets of their own.” So we would continue on our way, chatting, ignoring them completely, and she would pause along the way to admire the trees, explain the colouring of a new flower to me, or pet a stray dog. Yet it was they who said that she was queer. Now, in the ’50s, many shoppers in the big grocery stores have their own little grocery carts.

  We used the same carriage when we were gathering the clay used for the modelling classes and pottery. In some cities, where there are large Art centres, the clay may be purchased, already processed, by the pound. But in Victoria, over thirty years ago, there was very little or no call for clay, so the ever-active and busy little artist gathered her own.

  On the long walks we took each day, we kept our eyes open for new buildings about to be erected. As soon as we found one, with the digging about to start, we would pass that way daily, till the workers had dug their way down to where, if there was to be any, the true clay should be. Modelling clay has to be of a certain consistency. It is very hard to find, and is difficult to determine when you do find it, as all clay looks and feels very similar. The poor workmen! They were quite sure we were both mad. The new cellar might be from ten to thirty feet deep. I would go down, gather up a lump of the moist clay, and take it to Miss Carr, who would carefully feel it between her fingers. If it was promising, she would then bite off a small piece and grind it between her teeth. If it gritted, or squeaked, it was not what we were looking for, but if it stayed gummy, it was! The
men would watch in wonder; they never did make head or tail of it. If it was gummy, Miss Carr would stay there, and I would rush off for the wash boiler and baby carriage. We had also a small pail, an old potato pot, and a length of rope. If, when I returned, the clay already taken out of the hole was still clean, our task was simple. But if, as so often happened, they had dug below it again, and fresh gravel or sand was covering it, then down the hole I would go again, to scrape the clean clay from the sides of the hole. When the pail and potato pot were full, Miss Carr would pull them up and dump them into the boiler in the carriage. Have you any idea, I wonder, how heavy clay is? The tub, when full, weighed over three hundred pounds. Before I joined her, she used to go and gather her clay alone in smaller quantities, but with the same procedure each time. At that time she was the only person in the district interested in the clay for modelling. Till then the clay for studios had come from England. But, as Miss Carr said, her love for the West included it all, even the earth.

  When the boiler was full, I would pull, like a horse, on the rope which we had tied to the front, and she would push. The dogs and monkey loved it; as the load was heavy we made many stops, which gave them lots of time to explore along the way. They never wasted a minute.

  When we reached home with our load, it was dumped by degrees into tubs used only for the purpose, and covered with water, to weather. The days of processing were many, and were called “weathering the clay.” I often wondered, when the pots were finally made, and fired, and painted, how they could sell at any profit, at a price of only a quarter for the small ones!

  Each gathering of the clay, after we had washed and weathered it to the desired consistency, would make from three to five hundred pots, or what have you, depending on the size.

  The monkey, as well as the men, was quite sure Miss Carr was withholding something that, if explained, would make sense out of the business of tasting mud. Little Woo would watch very carefully and would pick up the exact piece that I had given Miss Carr, after she had dropped it. She would gingerly bite off a small piece, only to spit it out immediately, and jump up and down, in a rage at having been fooled again.

  Miss Carr, then past sixty, told me a little story about the rope which we used to pull the clay. I loved it and, if there is any of the out-of-doors in your soul, you will too. The little, woven, soft piece of rope had been given her years before, when she used to ride her pony with a Western saddle. It was the lasso which was kept tied to her saddle and used to tie up the pony on the occasions when, far out in the country, she would stop to sketch!

  They were wonderful days and Miss Carr a wonderful woman. It is a shame she had to work so hard, when her beautiful pictures, now so valuable, were then stacked about unsold. They were completely ignored by all but a few, who did very little about them.

  Emily Carr did not mind the work; she loved the cool, clean clay, and working with it. She hated only the rush of supply and demand, the mercenary end of it. The worry of the kiln was very great, the labour too much for one person. It was a dangerous and tiresome job, and that is why she did it herself.

  The clay on the west coast is wonderful to work with. I have no way of knowing, but I hope some is still being used and that all Miss Carr’s work along these lines will live on and continue to give satisfaction to busy, clever fingers.

  In those days, I, like the monkey, thought the business of tasting the clay was going too far. Now I realize that it was the only fast, sure way to ascertain that it was the type we needed.

  Today, when I find a new hole going down, people stare at me in wonder because, you see, I too taste the earth.

  INDIAN POTTERY

  EACH of our trips into the country was an event, never to be forgotten. Some were sketching trips only, others were wonderful treasure hunts, when every nook and rock was explored. Miss Carr used the natural little sea shells and rock formations for her models in many of the small pottery pieces. The Indians, together with the beautiful country, with its sea and mountains, wove themselves into the pattern that formed our day. We would have the monkey with us, the dogs of course, generally a parrot and the cat, plus the sketching material, stools, and food, because we stayed all day, sometimes ending up in a tent or, if there was one handy, a cabin. We always had such an assorted, bulky load! Very often our cabin would be one shared with an Indian. Emily Carr understood the Indians fully and loved them. They called her Klee Wyck, which meant Laughing One. This will, in itself, explain the high esteem in which they held her. It is not possible to fool the Indians for long, certainly not for over fifty years.

  The main reason, I think, for her high regard for Indians was their direct way of expressing themselves, without sham, and in very few words. It was apparent at once whether they liked you or not. Without rudeness, they ignored those they did not take to. Their great love for, and understanding of, animals was in their favour, of course. When someone began, “Why I knew an Indian once who . . .”, Miss Carr always said, “I’d rather not hear it; there are a few bad apples in every barrel, whether they be Dutch, French, ______, or Indian.” Always she would add the brand of the person speaking. This little strategy on her part paid off many times. Like the Indians, Miss Carr could express herself in very few words, in many cases directly to the point.

  Many many times, after a chat with her, maybe an hour or a year later, something she had said would come back to me, and the real meaning would be so clear that I’d wonder how I had missed it in the first place. Emily Carr was a wonderful person to talk to. She was not good at making small talk, but about anything that mattered, it was a treat to spend an hour talking with her. As well as being very entertaining she was an attentive and sympathetic listener.

  All through the years the birds have played a big part in history. I loved the interesting stories Miss Carr told me about them. It seemed to me, at first, that she was explaining her great love for them, but this was not the case. When she decided to use the Indian bird designs as the motifs for her pottery, it was with a partly guilty conscience that she did so. The Indians had, all through the years, kept their decorative work pure and simple, yet decisive. When she decided to follow their lead along these lines, she felt she could proceed with an easy mind. The large birds of war were her favourites, but any bird was an acceptable subject. When Miss Carr sat, brush in hand, the birds seemed to grow and come to life before her. She combined the Indian elements of vitality and strong abruptness, and the finished products were very attractive.

  It was the Indians themselves that Miss Carr was afraid of betraying, not the people who purchased the pottery. When I admired her pottery with enthusiasm, she would say quietly, “They are too new yet, give them time. One finds out one’s possessions in time, as one finds out one’s companions.” Then she would smile. There is no way of describing her smiles, as the sunrise cannot be described. It was never the same but always beautiful.

  This combining of two loves, Indians and clay, was to her serious business. That she loved it was evident in the finished product.

  The stories Miss Carr told of the old Egyptians and their birds, which had a sacred significance, and the ancient Chinese whose birds were social emblems, were many and varied. In the middle ages the knights used birds on their armour as symbols of estate. She had all the facts and, as told by her, it was a story I never tired of hearing.

  There is something very appealing about Miss Carr’s bird designs whether they were the strong crude Indian birds or the soft grey doves she did so beautifully. The realistic and conventional designs of the peacock, all brilliance, and the parrot and pheasant, with their richness and vitality, appealed to people in any mood. They seemed to build up, and store, all the love and thought God had put into them in the first place.

  Miss Carr was upset about the name given to her pottery, by the public. They seemed naturally to call it her “Indian Pottery.” This was in itself a fake, as the Indians thems
elves did not have pottery of any kind. If by chance they did have some, it was certainly not decorated with their designs. These were kept clean and whole, for totems and canoes.

  The modern “potters” on the Coast have copied Miss Carr’s interpretations of the Indian designs, without understanding, with no love or feeling, and now there is a hodge-podge of pottery that attracts only the tourist trade. The old Indians are dying out. Instead of memorials to Emily Carr, which she would shrug at, I am sure, figuring mentally how many children longing for Art the cost could have helped, it is a pity a Pottery Centre could not be started for those who love to model, with an instructor well trained in Indian designs. It is no wonder Emily Carr loved these designs, so simple, but so very beautiful.

  I have given them time. Twenty-eight years of it. She was right again, as she said, “One finds out one’s possessions in time, as one finds out one’s companions.”

  SKETCHING TRIPS

  HAVE you heard your friends say, when they were getting ready to move, or for holidays, that their dogs became fussed and uneasy, at sight of the open cases and trunks? I wonder then if you can imagine the to-do at Emily Carr’s home, when her cases appeared, as she prepared for a sketching trip? The monkey would be as coy as a ballerina. She would smile and flirt, as she pretended to be very busy in a corner, but as soon as backs were turned, into the open cases would go her own little treasures. These included peel from discarded fruit, insoles from any shoes that she came in contact with and it is amazing how often the door key, or any key, disappeared into the case. Often, at the last minute, as we were about to leave, all the bundles and baggage nicely and securely tied, the search for the key would start, as the taxi waited! “You had it.” “It was there.” “Surely you did not put it down!” “If heads were not . . .” Everything had to be unpacked and carefully shaken out. Have you ever had the need to find an article as small as a key while a taxi, with a driver who was not fond of animals, waited? Then, as likely as not, we would remember that it was not in that one anyway, but in the small box with the nailed-down lid! The little dogs would watch Miss Carr’s every move, and each other, while the parrot never stopped talking, afraid, I think, that he might be overlooked in the general mix-up. I was just as much nuisance as any of them, I guess.